A Little While
by someone took my pen name
Summary: Thoughtpattern experiment. DracoHermione, I guess. Slight language warning.


W00t! My first posted piece! 

There's no fixed character set, feel free to insert whomever you feel fits. I thought of Neji/Ten first, then Shika/Ino, then Draco/Hermione, then Lee/Ten, but I'm kinda leaning toward Draco/Hermione again right now, which is why it's in this category... This is basically whatever the hell came into my head, with the grammar gone all to hell. It's supposed to be confusing. Enjoy the insanity, and tell me what you think. Reviews are appreciated, and if you like it enough, I might even write another one.

Disclaimer: I don't even own myself (the Voices own me). What makes you think I could own them? Whoever 'they' happen to be.

I watch her, out of the corner of my eye. Watch her smile, watch her frown, watch her laugh and rage. And I'm intrigued. Her slender hands are never idle, but always gesturing or fidgeting, writhing with the energy that permeates her entire being. Rarely is she calm enough to sit still, showing all the control and grace of a child learning to ride its first bicycle.

Usually, I despise such a display of enthusiasm and lack of control-- but not in her. Somehow, _her_ energy is addictive. As though, if I watch her long enough, some of her excitement will rub off on me.

Now, why I'd want something that useless and utterly foolish is a mystery to me. But the mind is a mystery, as are a great many other things which men were never meant to understand, including the hearts of women. I think she just likes to tease me.

Maybe I'm losing my mind. Is that it? I've thought about it, and I don't think so. Being 'lost' implies that it can be 'found' again, which I'm not entirely sure is the case, at this point.

And now she's driving me in circles; uncertainty upon questions upon mysteries upon uncertainty. I hate circles. They're boring and regular and too damned hard to create properly. And I hate not being sure of things. All my life, I've been left wondering what's going to happen next, and it doesn't stop.

Of course it doesn't stop; it's just like her-- at once a complete mystery and completely open and never-endingly energetic about both. And now she's driving me in circles again. Did I mention that I hate circles? They're so predictable.

Which, I suppose, is contradicting what I've just said about not being sure of things. I'm only human, after all; complaining of overwork one moment and boredom the next...I'm certain there's a word for that, but I'm drawing a blank at the moment...

Inconsistency, I think. Which is also against what I've already said, concerning circles and predictability, driving me right back into the goddamned cycle.

I, myself, go in cycles, too. Right now, I'm angry and confused, which I hate, which makes me even angrier and more confused, because confusion is a lack of clarity, which means that, yet again, I'm unsure.

I hate it when I think in circles like this. I'll find something different to think about. Something that doesn't have anything to do with _her_ or anything else that'll make me think in even more circles. I certainly won't think of anything like that 'the chicken or the egg' business, because I think right now, that would kill me. I'm getting stuck in a circular rut, and I need something else to think about.

_Him_. There's a new subject! I _loathe_ him. Why do I loathe him? Because he has what I want. He has _her_, if only he'd open his eyes and see it.

My snarl is the only sound in the silence around me. I grab something that feels particularly expensive, and I throw it at the wall, just to feel it break. I like to break things. Especially minds. And hearts. Most especially, _particularly_ hearts. So much damage can be done with just a touch or a word or the infinitesimal curl of a lip.

Speaking of lips; hers are divine. Full and sensuous and expressive, both wonderful and terrible in what they can do to me. Pathetic really, that my once-formidable mind could crumble at the flighty whim of a random female.

But I suppose she's _not_ just a random female, is she? She's _herself_, which is why I'm thinking these things, because I'm certain I wouldn't be, if she was just another random female. Am I correct? Of course I am. That's just the way things work, and well I know it.

But what do I really know? When I talk to her, not much of use, it seems. I stumble through my thoughts and end up insulting her in the clumsy attempt to really tell her something. She's everything I tell myself that I don't want, but I never win. I can't lie that well.

I don't remember when I stopped trying. To lie to myself, that is; to tell myself that I didn't want her, that I didn't even want to think about her.

I need something to take my mind off of her. Something. _Anything_. Like what?

I don't know. I don't _know_, damnit!

I'm hungry. That seems safe enough. I wish I had some chocolate. Or some potatoes, or blackberries. Blackberries are my favorite. Sweet, but not cloyingly so, which just enough bitterness to make them worth it.

And now I've come back to her, haven't I? Maybe that's why I like her, she's like blackberries.

But I doubt it. No matter, now to search for another subject.

Writing! I know, I'll write a letter. I pull out a pen and several leaves of paper, wondering just who I should write to.

_Leaves of paper..._ Perhaps I'll write to the trees, who also have leaves. And now I know I'm losing it; what sane person speaks about the trees as if they can read or understand people?

...If I am insane, I think I like it. There isn't quite so much of the urgency, the pressure to think quickly and logically and... oh, I miss the summertime. Just lazing around, swimming down at the sea. Lying on the beautifully rough sand for hours and hours, then getting burnt to a crisp, but deciding it was worth it anyway.

I'll bet her skin is rough. She isn't the silky-smooth type, it just doesn't fit, somehow. I'd like to take her to the sea, to lie on that sand with me.

There's a draft in here; it's chilly. There'll be frost on the ground now. I don't suppose I'll be able to get away with leaving the window open much longer. I'm beginning to get goosebumps, and I don't get cold easily. Someone will be starting to complain soon, even if they were asleep. I suppose I'd better close it, then I won't be disturbed. How difficult it would be to explain why I was sitting here, in the dark, with the window open and doing nothing constructive at all.

This chair is uncomfortable. It's lumpy and old and rickety, and I've almost gotten rid of it quite a few times. Somehow, I never seem to have the heart, though. It's always been here, I don't remember a time when it wasn't, and I think I would miss it.

It's getting late. Perhaps I should go to bed; tomorrow's going to come early, and I'm quite sure that I'll have something important and time consuming that will need to be done that'll force me to concentrate, at least for a little while.

That's as far as I ever seem to get anymore: a little while.


End file.
